


Slaughterhouse Fire

by formalizing



Series: Tumblr Writing [3]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Animal Death, Arson, M/M, Minor Character Death, Murder, Sibling Incest, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-27
Updated: 2016-01-27
Packaged: 2018-08-27 08:22:29
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8394328
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/formalizing/pseuds/formalizing
Summary: “How bad do you think it hurts when you burn to death?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [rei_c](https://archiveofourown.org/users/rei_c/gifts).



> Originally posted [on Tumblr](http://all-these-formalities.tumblr.com/post/138142688934/sam-has-always-had-something-tar-black-and-sticky).

Sam has always had something tar black and sticky behind his eyes.

When he’s only five, he bites a boy in his class; he bites him so hard the boy needs three stitches. Dad has to go into the school and talk to his teacher, and Sam would’ve been expelled if they didn’t take pity on the poor widower father with a child he doesn’t understand.

Dad looks at him strangely after that, short glances like he doesn’t want his eyes on him for too long; like maybe Sam’s the kind of thing he writes about in that journal of his.

Dean looks at him differently, too, but not with uncertainty. Because when they’re in the bed they still have to share and Dean asks him why he did it, Sam nips at Dean’s finger, gentle the way he wasn’t with his classmate. He says he only wanted to see what would happen; he didn’t let go until he tasted blood because he liked the funny noises the boy made.

Dean’s entirely sure his brother’s not right, but he still can’t tear his eyes away.

Sam gets better at blending in. He studies smiles until his imitation is nearly perfect, can change his masks so quickly most people never notice that he’s blank underneath.

They look at him and would never imagine how he loves to watch small things die; ants crushed to a smear between his fingertips, spiders drowned in the sink, the bright, blink and you’ll miss it flare a moth makes when it burns up in the flame it’s drawn to.

The realest expression Dean has ever seen on Sam’s face is the fond twist of his lips the time their neighbor’s cat found a baby bird—still in just down with its eyes not even open, probably knocked from its nest by the wind—and got its tiny head between its jaws, crunched hard enough to put a stop to its tiny, lost sounds.

Sam still crawls into Dean’s bed late at night sometimes, even now that they don’t have to share. When he wraps an arm around Dean’s waist this time, his skin is cold.

“Sam?” he says as Sam gets so close they’re sharing one pillow, because Dean can’t find the right words to ask why Sam’s windblown hair smells like a slaughterhouse fire.

“Kiss me,” he whispers, traces Dean’s jaw with fingers that smell like struck matches.

Dean doesn’t say that they can’t, that it’s wrong; Sam has wrong twisted deep down into his bones. He barely breathes as he brushes his dry lips over Sam’s.

“Not like that,” Sam says, kitten-licks at Dean’s upper lip where his lips are parted. “The way you kiss a girl. The kind where I can taste you.”

He keeps his eyes open and locked with Sam’s as he leans down over him and presses their mouths together, licks his brother open and pliant for him. Sam tastes his fill, kisses sloppy wet with his arms around Dean’s neck to pull him closer. When he hooks a leg under Dean’s ass and moves his hips in needy circles, Dean rocks back against him until they get the rhythm right.

Sam is almost silent when he comes, just one sharp gasp against Dean’s lips and the stutter of his hips. There’s a smirk Dean can feel on Sam’s swollen mouth around his earlobe as he bites down and Dean comes with a groan.

“How bad do you think it hurts when you burn to death?” Sam murmurs in his ear, just the slightest bit breathless.

Dean thinks about a nursery fire in November.

“Go to sleep, Sam.”

Sam yawns, pulls Dean’s hand to his hipbone, mechanically curls his fingers until they’re gripped around him bruise-tight.

“I think it hurts a lot.”

Dean lies awake all night with Sam’s head tucked under his chin in a bed that smells like come and hellfire smoke.

They break the news at a school assembly the next day. It’s one of the pretty, blonde cheerleaders, and Dean kissed her less than a week ago but he doesn’t even remember her name until they say it. Jenna. “Jenna and her family were all sadly unable to escape the fire.”

He acts like he’s surprised, because he can wear masks, too. She was small—so short she had to get on her tiptoes just to put her slim arms around his neck—and Dean knows what Sam does with small things.


End file.
